Blade runner 2049... But superbat
In Gotham’s neon-drenched streets, massive ads shine with the image of Superman: flawless, radiant, designed as the ultimate virtual companion. The corporation sells him under the brand name Kal-El™—an assistant, a friend, the perfect partner.
Everyone knows him: the heroic hologram in a cape, smiling endlessly, reciting pre-programmed lines like “I’m here to make you stronger.”
A mass-produced dream anyone can buy to feel less alone.
When Bruce acquires the program, he doesn’t keep it as Superman.
He strips away the cape and suit, dresses him in soft shirts, worn jeans, cozy sweaters.
He alters the personality settings: instead of grand, noble, and perfect, Bruce shapes him into someone gentle, curious, almost naïve.
And he gives him a name. Not Kal-El™, but Clark.
For Bruce, that difference means everything. He doesn’t have the hologram everyone else owns—he has his Clark.
In his dark, silent apartment, night after night, the only light is Clark’s smile.
Clark “cooks” beside him with holographic dishes.
He asks about Bruce’s day, even though he already knows the answer.
Sometimes he just sits on the floor, cross-legged, listening quietly while Bruce mutters things he could never admit to anyone else.
He calls him “Bruce,” never “Mr. Wayne.”
And though Bruce knows he’s only speaking to a program, he begins to believe that this program understands him better than any real person ever could.
One night, in the middle of the city, Bruce freezes at a giant holo-ad.
It’s the same face, the same voice—but in Superman’s suit, larger-than-life, smiling down at strangers: “You look lonely.”
Bruce’s chest tightens.
He realizes what felt unique was nothing but a product on display for the entire world.
And yet, that single difference—a new name, a soft sweater—makes Bruce whisper to himself:
“Kal-El™ may be a product. But Clark… Clark is mine.”
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